


you could be the king but watch the queen conquer

by thereisnoreality



Series: murdery martrimony [3]
Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Cheating, M/M, Murder, Past Ten/Taemin, Unhealthy Relationships, but when they like first started having electricity, it's like there for half a second but just in case, it's not between kunten if that worries anyone, some nebulous time period i envision as downton abbey, ten wears a pink silk robe, tiny warning for emotional abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2021-01-25 08:30:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21353269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thereisnoreality/pseuds/thereisnoreality
Summary: “Well…” Kun hesitates, not sure if he should say the words hammering at the front of his tongue, begging to be let out, but then Ten’s eyes flicker up to him, and Kun is reminded of his words in the parlor.He continues. “It’s an awful thing to say but it seems as if Mr. Lee’s untimely passing, while a terrible event, might open up many previously closed avenues for you.” Kun pauses. “But a truly unfortunate fate, it was, that befell him.”“Truly,” Ten echoes, a curl of a smile coiling about his full lips.Kun smiles back.
Relationships: Chittaphon Leechaiyapornkul | Ten/Qian Kun
Series: murdery martrimony [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1479671
Comments: 51
Kudos: 246





	you could be the king but watch the queen conquer

**Author's Note:**

> im back with part three of a series a grand total of three people want to read :D  
i swear the tags make this story seem far more dark than it is, or maybe i'm just very numb at this point. either way, please enjoy kunten as murdery marrieds part three~
> 
> yes the title is from the greatest rap verse of all time no i am not taking it back
> 
> [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6CZgnSjaq32sMvAmPp6ove?si=djf9XvlCRK-5csy17HPKEg)

The road to the Lee’s manor is long and smooth. Kun’s car is an old piece of garbage he’d bought quick and for far more money than it was worth, simply because there was no other way to get around town, and even this car, near to falling apart, handles perfectly on the road.

He pulls up to the front door and arches a brow at the house. It looks so much like the mansions Kun used to read about when he was younger, tracing out the ornate architecture with an awed finger. On the lawn in front of the gazebo, the Lees’ famous tiger lies, sunning herself in the sun, jaw cracking open with a dangerous yawn when she glances over at Kun. There is no collar on her. Rumour around the village has it that Mr. Lee’s then fiance had brought her with him, had tamed her all by himself and now was in possession of a tiger loyal to him and no one else. Kun would believe it, only because he had met the owner early on in his months on the force and had quickly come to the conclusion that it was best to never underestimate him.

Kun steps out on the raked gravel and walks up to the door, letting the ornate knocker fall once from his fingers against the dark wood. The sound reverberates up the walls of the house and Kun turns his head up, following the ivy curling up around the columns of the house. It’s a beautiful house and the occupant is even more so. The door opens and Kun lowers his gaze to meet Mr. Lee’s, blinking once in shock when he takes in the floor length, pale pink silk robe that seems to be the only garment covering him.

One of the sleeves slip down from his shoulder as he opens the door wider, a sultry smile on his lips as he takes Kun in from top to bottom. “Detective Qian, what a surprise. I wasn’t expecting you.”

_Clearly_, Kun thinks, deliberately looking away from the pale curve of Mr. Lee’s neck and focusing instead on the marble statue sitting in the middle of the foyer. “My apologies, Mr. Lee, but my captain had a couple more questions for you, just to wrap up the investigation completely.”

A shadow passes over Mr. Lee’s face and he bites his lip, looking down at the plush red carpet. “Of- of course,” he says, waving Kun in and shutting the door silently behind him. “I thought the investigation had ended with the estate sale. They ruled it as a natural death, didn’t they?”

“As natural as hitting your head on the bathtub wall can be, yes.” Kun regrets it the moment he says it. Mr. Lee’s eyes fill up with tears and he turns away, hand covering his mouth. “Oh no- I’m sorry, Mr. Lee, I didn’t -”

Mr. Lee waves him off. “No, no,” he says through a choked voice. “You’re simply doing your job.” Kun watches, helpless, as Mr. Lee shudders through half a sob before clearing his throat and turning back around, a silk handkerchief procured out of nowhere pressed against the single glistening tear dripping down his cheek.

“My apologies, Mr. Lee,” Kun says again, wondering how he started this off on the wrong foot, _again_.

Mr. Lee bats his apology away before he can continue. “No, don’t apologise, Detective. I think I just haven’t really absorbed the fact that he’s gone.” He stares down at his hands before slowly folding the handkerchief and making it vanish back into his robe. Mr. Lee clears his throat again and then tosses his hair back, meeting Kun’s eyes squarely, his previous sadness having vanished as if was never there. As if it was a figment of Kun’s imagination. It’s almost shocking, more than a little terrifying how quickly he manages to hide his emotions. “I’m sorry for that little display, Detective. That was improper of me. Now, what questions did you have for me?”

“Kun, please,” Kun offers as they make their way into the library. He’s a step behind Mr. Lee and thus is treated with an eyeful of his back, the sloping lines of tattoo curling around his arm and shoulder before he pulls his robe back up again.

“Then you must call me Ten,” Mr. Lee says, waving him into the parlor. It’s a beautiful room, carpeted with dark red, and ornate gold ornamentation criss crossing up the ceiling culminating in a beautiful chandelier, dripping with crystal. “Mr. Lee is- _was_ my husband. And he always insisted that my name was too long to be used in proper society. I suppose now that he’s gone, there’s really nothing stopping me, is there?”

Kun privately thinks that nothing should have stopped him in the first place from using his actual _name_, but he doesn’t acknowledge it. Instead, he chooses the safer option. “I’m sorry for intruding on a day like this.”

The funeral had been a week ago, and while Kun himself had not attended, he had seen the pictures splashed across the front of the newspaper, the society pages, the tabloids, all hosting the same picture of Ten, covered in black, silently crying as they lowered his husband into the ground.

Ten shrugs, lowering himself on the chaise, spreading out horizontally more than sitting upright. The robe slips from his thigh and he makes no move to fix it. “It’s no trouble, I gave everyone the rest of the month off. It’s just me in this big, empty place, now.”

“Good for recovering,” Kun points out gently, fixing his gaze above Ten’s collarbones. “Death is an unwanted visitor who leaves quickly but once he is gone, his ghost lingers.”

“Ghost,” Ten pronounces, a curl of something wry twisting about his lips - perfect and pink and full as they were. Kun sits up straighter, adjusting his posture. “How appropriate.”

Kun tries his best to smile. “My apologies, sir-” at Ten’s sharp look, he quickly amends, “Ten- but I have to get these questions out of the way. They’re just a final formality, the captain wanted some of the notes retaken, and then you never have to see any of the force’s faces again, if you’d like.”

Ten smiles. “What a pity that would be,” he murmurs. “All those handsome faces to never cross my threshold again.” He glances at Kun, lingering in a way that makes Kun’s cheeks heat up, before nodding. “Please, continue, Kun.”

Kun can’t help the small flutter of his heart at the sound of his name passing through Ten’s lips. He clears his throat, hoping he’s not blushing before pulling out his notebook and readying his pen. “It’s about the night of Mr. Lee’s… passing. If you feel like it gets to be too much to bear, please let me know.” At Ten’s nod, he continues. “You said you had retired for the night when Mr. Lee had come home from the city, yes?”

“Yes.”

“And at what time did you wake up to realise that Mr. Lee wasn’t in the- ahem- wasn’t with you?”

A small smile flickers across Ten’s face, a little sadder, a little angrier, as if Kun had just dug around in his soul for a painful memory. “We hadn’t been sleeping in the same room for over seven months at that point. Mr. Lee had been traveling so much, you see, back and forth from the city, leaving before the sun even rose and coming back when the mood had all but retired for the day. And I’m quite the light sleeper, so we agreed that it would be best to use seperate rooms until his work calmed down.”

“That must have been hard on you.”

Ten glances up at him. “Of course it was,” he sighs, hand coming up to touch the necklace resting on his chest. “He was my everything. It hurt to see him have to run himself into the ground, working so hard and I could do nothing to help.”

Kun pauses over the next question, hesitating. “Then,” he says slowly. “It must have been a shock to realise that he was- that he had a mistress in the city.”

A change goes over Ten’s face. It wasn’t instantaneous, more gradual, slow, almost like the sun setting on the moors, a dark slow cloud sweeping over the perfect curves of his face, until he looked almost unrecognisable.

“Yes,” Ten says tightly, before pursing his lips and looking away from Kun. In that moment, the robe slips back down his shoulder and despite the fact that there should be nothing to blush at, Kun does so at the sight of Ten’s bare chest, of the tattoo curling over his breastbone and down his ribcage, foreign letters that Kun didn’t recognise swirling over the ivory skin.

Ten sighs. “Yes he - Taemin - was a busy man. And we saw less and less of each other as the years passed. It’s only logical that… that such a thing would come to pass.”

Kun studies Ten a moment longer, unable to tear his gaze away from him. He had created such a stir when he’d first arrived in the sleepy town, Mr. Lee’s beautiful, foreign fiance from far, far away, so far that no one knew him and he knew no one. Kun had rarely spotted him for the first year, only hearing rumours, progressively becoming more outrageous as the months passed. Ten’s tiger had cubs and the grounds were positively crawling with tiny, soon-to-be man eating beasts. Ten’s parties were the stuff of legend, a night of bacchanalian revelry and wine-soaked dreams flitting out of one’s mind as soon as they collapsed onto the nearest horizontal surface, a blank slate greeting them the next morning. However, the most outrageous whisper around Ten that Kun had heard had been the one he’d been involved in most deeply.

Four weeks ago, nearly a month to the day, the valet had entered the now deceased Mr. Lee’s room only to find him still in his bathwater, now a pale pink from the blood that had poured out the back of his head and down his body into the water. It had been quite the macabre sight.

“I’m not sure logic had anything to do with it,” Kun says quietly. Ten’s eyes flash to him and Kun nearly flinches. The sun outside is setting and the golden glow is filling the library, and despite the sun covering Ten’s body, turning him from living marble to living gold, Kun starts to feel cold. “I’m sorry, I-”

“You’re right,” Ten cuts in through his apologies, words like a dagger slicing through thin air. “Logic probably had nothing to do with it. He probably got too bored of his old toys and decided to find himself a new one.” It’s said blandly, as if it’s a fact that everyone should know but Kun can’t help but feel incredulous at it.

And before Kun can stop himself, he says, “I don’t think anyone could look at you and consider you a toy. Old or new.”

Ten stares at him, his lips parting in silent surprise. “My, my,” he says when he recovers, his shoulders slumping from the tense line they’d been pulled in. “You’re very forward, aren’t you, Detective?”

Kun blushes fully now, feeling the heat rise up in his cheeks. “My apolo-”

“Stop saying things you mean and then apologising for them,” Ten tells him. “I have very little patience for circumvention. Tell me what you mean and then if you need to apologise, well then…” He considers Kun, pink tongue flickering over his bottom lip as he drags his gaze, heavy like the touch of a wandering hand, up and down Kun’s body. “I’m sure we can work something out.”

Kun stares back at him, his own mouth dropping open slightly. The sun dips lower, drawing long shadows across the curves of Ten’s body, steadily becoming more exposed as the robe slides open on his thighs. Ten arches an eyebrow at him, something like mischief glimmering behind his lidded gaze, and waves his hand for Kun to continue.

The rest of the questions proceed in much of the same fashion, with Ten breaking off into tangents about his husband who, Kun was getting the impression, was not all that fantastic at _being _a husband. It turns out Ten had been a very well known socialite in his country before the late Mr. Lee had whisked him away, plying him with whispers of wealth and tales of long sought after adventures.

“Hardly any adventures were meant to be had,” Ten tells Kun drolly after he’d broken out the drinks cupboard, pressing a full glass of wine into Kun’s hand despite his protests. “I don’t think I’ve crossed town limits since I arrived here, except to go into the city.”

“That’s horrible,” Kun had whispered over his glass. He was content here, of course. This village was his home, he had grown up here and would most probably die here, and he was content with that. But Ten did not give off that impression at all.

Ten grins at him, canines flashing. “Well,” he says lightly, setting his empty glass on the hand carved table beside him. “I suppose I have a lot more freedom now,” he says finally. The words are flippant in a way Kun isn’t expecting. He blinks, trying to absorb that. Ten stands, tying his robe tightly around him again. “Would you like to stay for dinner?”

“Oh.” Kun glances outside in surprise. He hadn’t even noticed time passing so quickly. The sun had all but disappeared from the horizon, leaving a faint light lingering, and Ten gets up, lighting a lantern to shed some light in the room. “I should be getting back, it’s getting late.” The roads were so dark nowadays, this close to winter and Kun rarely felt that comfortable driving through them.

“Please,” Ten says, not looking up at him. He’s staring at the flickering light held in his hands. It’s not phrased as a question but Kun can hear the plaintive query behind it. “It’s been a- a lonely few days and I would really appreciate some company.”

Kun gives in instantly, tucking his notebook into his jacket. “I’d love to.”

Ten’s smile lights up the room brighter than any light he could conjure could.

⥈

The kitchens are on the ground floor of the manor and Ten takes his time lighting the candles lining the walls as he goes.

“I’ve had to fend for myself this past week,” Ten tells Kun over his shoulder. Kun catches glimpse of a third tattoo, behind his ear, and wonders where he had gotten them done. They were beautifully intricate, this one a small dagger curling over the bone behind the shell of his ear. “So, I’m afraid the quality of dinner won’t be what you’re used to.”

“I’m honoured you extended the invitation at all,” Kun replies as Ten turns the light on in the kitchen. The Lee’s house being what it was, they had gotten electricity as soon as it was available in houses. Ten tells him that only the main dining room, the kitchen, the library, and the main bedrooms - the places most used in the house - had electricity for now.

“But we’re trying to expand.” Ten’s face goes blank for a second as he sets down a cutting board with a loaf of bread on it. “_I’m_ trying to expand now, I suppose. My husband didn’t really have a taste for it, but I find it wonderfully useful. If a bit indulgent; imagine having all that light at a flick of your fingers.”

“It’s quite the novelty,” Kun agrees, helping Ten with slicing the bread as he opens the pantry door, bringing out olives and cheese, along with figs and honey. “This looks delicious.”

Ten laughs, sitting down across him. “This is nothing, I promise. I haven’t managed to drag myself down to the market quite yet, but once I do, I’ll invite you back for a proper dinner.”

“You cook?” Kun asks surprised. He can hardly make himself a proper meal without having to resort to the good graces of his next door neighbour, the elderly Ms. Roberts who still feeds him despite it having been many years since Kun got a place of his own.

“My mother was a very talented cook,” Ten tells him with a faint smile, eyes faraway as if lost in memory. “She used to tell me that a proper man weighed himself by the skills he possessed, not by how much gold he hoarded in the bank. I learned many things from her at a very young age, cooking included.”

“She sounds like a wise woman.”

“She is.”

“Do you write her often?”

Ten’s smile fades. “I didn’t used to, my- the late Mr. Lee - he didn’t approve of me being so attached to my country. He was of the opinion that I should assimilate into proper culture.” His pretty face darkens and Kun feels a similar stab of anger in his chest. “Whatever that meant.”

Kun watches him for a beat longer but when Ten continues to pick at his bread, lips tight, he decides to break the silence. “Well…” He hesitates, not sure if he should say the words hammering at the front of his tongue, begging to be let out, but then Ten’s eyes flicker up to him, and Kun is reminded of his words in the parlor. “It’s an awful thing to say but it seems as if Mr. Lee’s untimely passing, while a _terrible_ event, might open up many previously closed avenues for you.” He pauses. “But a truly _unfortunate _fate, it was, that befell him.”

“Truly,” Ten echoes, a curl of a smile coiling about his full lips.

Kun smiles back.

Halfway through dinner, Ten opens a new bottle of wine and it flows smoothly between them, their conversation following in the same fashion. The flap in the kitchen door swings open to reveal Ten’s tiger, grumbling as she shakes off the water clinging to her coat.

“Oh sweetheart,” Ten coos, sliding off his chair and going up to her. “Is it raining out there?” The tiger snorts and drops down in front of the fire Kun had started when the night’s chill had started to creep under the doors.

Kun opens the kitchen and glances out into the night. The rain is steadily getting harder as he watches, and within seconds it's pouring outside. "Oh no."

"Is something wrong?" Ten asks, coming up beside him. Their shoulders brush and Kun nearly flinches at it. He hadn't expected it, but Ten is warm, the heat pouring off him in waves that nearly envelop Kun.

"Oh no, nothing," Kun says hurriedly, glancing at him. "I'm just wondering how I'll get the car through this. I'm not sure it'll survive the drive down."

"I'm not sure either," Ten murmurs. "It's a classic car."

"A very nice way to put that it's a very old car," Kun laughs, shutting the door as the wind starts to blow hard, the rain splattering against them.

Ten wraps his robe tighter around him and runs his hand over his tiger's head as he walks past her to deposit the dishes in the sink. "You're more than welcome to stay here, if you'd like," he offers. "We - _I_ have plenty of room."

Kun glances at the tiger now half-asleep in front of the fire. "I shouldn't," he hedges. "It's getting quite late."

"It's very well possible that the road to the village will be half flooded by the time you get down there," Ten tells him, glancing at Kun over his shoulder. His profile is beautiful in the light of the fire, the shadows dancing off his face. "You can leave first thing in the morning if you'd prefer."

Kun looks outside the window just as lightning flashes across the sky. "I don't know what gives you the impression I'd like to run away at the first sign of light."

Ten laughs, turning around, drying his hands on a towel. "Call it a necessary precaution."

“Well,” Kun draws out considering. “I suppose if all precautions are in place.”

Ten’s smile is victorious. “Now you’re speaking my language, Detective.”

He flicks the lights off and leads them back upstairs.

"What about your tiger?" Kun asks, glancing back at the large beast, now rumbling in what Kun could almost describe as a purr if the tiger did not come up to his waist.

"She'll come up when she's ready," Ten says.

They drift into the library and Ten offers Kun another glass, this time of amber whiskey. Against his better judgement Kun takes it, despite the blurriness already invading his vision, the looseness of his limbs warning of too much drink already in his system. Ten sits down beside him on the sofa and Kun knows he stares a moment too long at the curve of Ten's thigh, unveiled by the slit in the robe he hadn't noticed before.

"Thank you for your hospitality," Kun says, pouring Ten's drink out for him. Ten takes the glass from him with a small smile.

"Thank _you_ for being so kind to me," he says. "I know I'm not a popular figure around the police. I was expecting a tense afternoon but it was nothing like that." He glances at Kun, their eyes meeting. "_You_ were nothing like what I expected."

"Well," Kun smiles, tipping his head down at Ten. "I do my best to surprise."

"Oh, well that you most certainly did," Ten purrs, and when his hand lands on Kun's thigh, Kun doesn't move away.

⥈

If there were ever a rumour surrounding Ten that Kun might have believed with all of his heart it would have gone something like this:

One foggy morning, a detective, sleepy and slow, wanders outside his home for a walk in the park that borders the famous Lee family manor. The night had drawn on long and unending, and when the detective had woken to the sight of the moon still hanging high in the sky, he had been unable to fall back into sleep's waiting arms. So he had slipped out of bed, drawn on his clothes and set out into the night, hoping to find some solace in the familiar sound of crickets and the familiar sight of the stars sparkling down on him.

And on that walk he sees a figure silently sitting on a bench, a familiar creature by his side, its great yellow eyes fixed on the detective as he walks by.

“She won’t eat you,” the strangers calls when he sees the detective hanging back, unable to walk forward, amused despite the clear shine of tears in his eyes, the redness around his nose which, if the detective had been pressed, he would have admitted was one of the prettiest noses he’d ever seen. “She listens to me well.”

“I thought I was still dreaming,” the detective admits, walking cautiously closer. The tiger watches him the whole time, unmoving, unblinking. “It’s not often that one sees a tiger in a place like this. How ever did you train her?”

“I didn’t,” the stranger says, almost offended, but he makes room on the bench for the detective to slide onto. He wears simple men's clothing, but the detective is surprised to see a silver necklace sit above his shirt, glinting even in the night time. “She listens to me because I respect her. I would not do her the dishonour of attempting to chain her and shackle her to the ground with my commands. What kind of treatment is that for one so beautiful?” The stranger offers his hand to the tiger, who considers it before caressing it with her giant face, a low rumbling akin to that of thunder before a storm coming out of her tremendous body.

The detective watches in awe. "She is beautiful."

The stranger smiles. "Thank you."

The detective watches him caress his tiger for a moment. "If I may be so bold as to inquire as to why you were crying?"

The stranger's head shoots up, his eyes wide in surprise, and the detective immediately backpedals. "My apologies," he hastens to add. "I did not mean to pry."

The stranger waves his apologies away, batting them out of the sky as if they were merely pests. "Please no, we have shared this bench in the night, why not share secrets as well?"

"Is it a secret?"

The sigh that flies out of the stranger is wistful, almost pained. It hurts to hear. "I suppose not. What harm is there in telling a stranger?"

The detective smiles. "Precisely. Telling a stranger your secrets is almost like telling your bedroom walls. No one to hear."

"Not unless there's someone listening," the stranger agrees, a wry smile curling about his lips.

"Well, there's no one listening here," the detective offers and the smile on the stranger's pretty face widens.

"My husband and I," he starts slowly, looking down at his hands. Most of his body is covered by his clothing, only leaving his hands and face exposed. His hands are pale ivory, almost as if they hadn't been out in the sun in a long, long time. He sighs, starting again. "My husband and I are fighting. We have been for a while now and today it exploded," He lets out a wry laugh, so there is nothing humorous about his statement. "I'm sure we scared half the maids with our shouting. It was horribly graceless."

"Fights are natural for married couples," the detective offers. "Or so I've heard."

The laugh that spills out of the stranger is louder now, realer, and the detective smiles, pleased. “I’m sure they are,” he agrees. “But I’m not sure having an affair in the city and giving your husband excuses as to your reasons for travelling there every weekend are not.”

“Ah.” The detective looks down at his hands, his head spinning. He was at a loss as to how to respond.

“Now _that_ was far too forward,” the stranger sighs, his eyes falling. “I apologise for that.”

The detective shrugs. “No one listening, nothing to apologise for.”

The stranger tips his head to look at him, a faint smile on his face. The detective stares back, and somehow despite knowing it’s the worst possible thing he could do, in his heart of hearts, cannot help the way he smiles back.

It was a strange thing, but no one noticed the blossoming friendship between the jilted lover and the detective. For a village so nosy and involved in everyone’s business but their own, no one noticed at all. Perhaps it was because the detective, a now burgeoning insomniac, and the stranger, becoming increasingly more estranged from his husband, spent their time together away from public places, talking about everything and nothing. Perhaps it was because they only met at night, in the detective’s home or at the park with the stranger’s tiger nestled at their feet. Perhaps it was because they liked the secrecy, the shared secrets that no one was listening to, the slow easy burn that comes with discovering a friendship like no other.

It was in those days that the detective would discover that, no matter the first impression of his marriage, the stranger had not been treated as well as one should treat a husband he had whisked from a faraway country.

“That’s terrible,” the detective murmurs as the stranger collapses back on the couch, chest heaving with the force of his tirade. “Your husband doesn’t deserve you.” He blushes as soon as he says it but he doesn’t take it back, not even after the stranger looks at him and doesn’t look away.

“He most certainly doesn’t,” the stranger agrees. “Whatever should I do about that then, detective?”

The detective, several months into their friendship and thoroughly enamoured with the stranger, tips his head to the side, smiling as he rests a hand on the stranger’s thigh. “You’re asking the wrong questions, you know.”

The stranger doesn’t shy away from his touch. He leans into it, moving closer, and looks up at the detective through his eyelashes. “Whatever do you mean?”

And the detective simply takes a sip of his wine and murmurs, “You should be asking ‘whatever should _we_ be doing about that?’”

A smile curves into place. “So you’re on my side then?”

The hand tightens on his thigh. “I’m wherever you want me to be.”

The stranger’s smile turns sharper, acidic, canines glinting in the firelight dancing off the walls of the detective’s parlor. His hand comes to rest over the detective’s, on top of his thigh.

“Good.”

But anyhow, it’s a good thing that a rumour like that never existed in the first place… Isn’t it?

⥈

“It’s a pity our first time is like this,” Ten whispers when Kun lays him out on his bed, hands smoothing up Ten’s thighs, the robe falling to his sides, ties clinging to hold the last of Ten’s modesty together. He’d never felt them like this, not bare and prickled with gooseflesh because the fire was taking far too long to warm up the room. “I would have liked to see the old bastard’s reaction when he realised he wasn’t the only one in the world with a secret lover.”

“You weren’t unfaithful,” Kun reminds him, his thumbs running in circles against the tendons standing out on Ten’s thighs, because that had been a tipping point for him. That Ten hadn’t touched Kun until he was declared a widow, until the vows he’d taken were truly null and void. “You never even kissed me until- until that night.”

Ten’s smile sweetens. Until the night of the funeral. Until Ten had disappeared from the house and taken the path winding around the park to Kun’s house, had shed his coat and climbed into Kun’s arms where he sat in the armchair, tipping his chin up and kissed him so sweetly. “I’m free,” Ten had whispered, looking down into Kun’s eyes. “All thanks to you.”

“Anything for you,” Kun had told him lowly, almost fiercely, and the next kiss had tasted sweeter than the first, almost impossibly so. Tasted of freedom. Of independence.

“I wasn’t, was I?” Ten murmurs proudly now, sitting up and pushing Kun back until his back hits the headboard, his hands sliding down to Kun’s waistcoat, pulling out the notebook. Kun watches in amusement as Ten flings the notebook into the fire before turning back to Kun with a wide-eyed look. “Oh my, Detective Qian, it seems as if the notebook has fallen into the fire. How clumsy of me.”

“You won’t be popular with the captain,” Kun sighs, tipping his head up to meet Ten’s for a kiss, his hand sliding into Ten’s hair, carding through the smooth locks. “He already suspects you.”

“He doesn’t have proof,” Ten laughs against his mouth as his hands travel downward, slowly unbuttoning Kun’s waistcoat and sliding it off his shoulders. “You took care of that for me.”

Perhaps it should be shameful for Kun to lay with Ten in the bed he used to share with his husband. But Kun has learned a lot in the last year. Has learned that a luxurious marriage is not always a good one, that there is far, far more hidden behind the drapes than first meets the eyes, that rich men were more likely to be controlling bastards than they were ever to be the princes told of in fairy tales.

That perhaps, sometimes, there was a good reason for a fresh grave.

Perhaps Kun should have felt some shame about learning these lessons, but now, with Ten atop him, his head thrown back, neck bared to the press of Kun’s lips as his hips sink down on Kun’s cock, looking to all the world as if he was sitting on a throne, Kun cannot feel anything but pleasure.

Ten raises himself up, looks into Kun’s eyes and kisses him deeply as he slams back down, groaning at the feeling, his nails digging into the curve of Kun’s spine.

Pleasure and pride.

“My darling,” Kun whispers, wrapping his arms around Ten’s back and guiding him down on the bed. The fire, strong and warm now, pours a golden orange light onto Ten. He looks more alive than ever. Ten is still wearing his robe, in the loosest definition possible, as it has slipped down to his elbows, rumpled at the small of his back, and Kun would possibly like to never see him out of it. “You look beautiful. I’m so happy you’re finally mine.”

Ten smiles up at him, panting, wrapping his legs around Kun’s back and looping his arms around Kun’s neck. “Forever, dearest,” he promises and the noise he lets out, high and pleased when Kun rocks into him again and again, kissing him all the while, is a sound Kun wants to remember forever. “As long as we both shall live.”

Kun laughs softly and presses into him again and again until Ten is shattering apart in his arms, held together only by the touch of his lover. He agrees. “Forever.”

⥈

The town notices slowly at first. They don’t make it obvious, of course. But bit by bit, the busybody villagers start poking their nose into a business that was most certainly not their own.

The first sign is the widowed Mr. Lee, who now insists everyone call him by his first name as he laughingly declares that not a soul in the world would be able to pronounce his family name, walking to the markets every weekend with his cook. Thus follow the whispers that Mr. Lee - now Ten - helps the maids out in the daily tasks of running the manor. Such a good man, the villagers nod knowingly.

_I always knew it, he has kind eyes, I always said so._

The second sign is Ten walking to the police station during lunch, a basket clutched in his hand, still covered in black gloves, mourning his husband’s death, and delivers lunch to the mild mannered Detective Qian who apparently had helped him a great deal in the wake of his husband’s passing.

_What a sweet soul_, they sigh, clutching handkerchiefs to dry eyes as Ten sweeps past. _Someone should be caring for him instead of the other way around_.

The third sign is Ten shedding his mourning clothes on the anniversary of his husband’s death. _Poor thing_, they whisper, as they pass the cemetery where Ten spends the whole day, sitting by his husband’s grave. _Still so loyal. The fates took him too early._

The fourth sign is when Detective Qian walks up to the Lee manor, a bouquet of paper white lilies in his hands, a shy but nervous smile on his face. No one knows what transpires that day. They don’t dare ask.

_Good for him_, they say approvingly over cups of scalding chamomile tea. _He’s young yet, he deserves a good man and that detective is as good as they come. _

The fifth, and perhaps most damning sign is during May Day, more than three years after Ten’s husband’s passing, when the festival covers the streets, and laughter and drinks flow smoothly as the children dance around the pole, twirling coloured ribbons, winding them tighter and tighter together. The nosiest of villagers look up in time to see Detective Qian drop on one knee, a modest ring in one hand, Ten’s hand in the other.

No one hears what he says, as the festival is too loud, the shrieking laughter of the children too gleeful. But flowers rain down from the rooftops, and they all watch in silent awe as Ten nods, his eyes shining with tears, as Detective Qian rises and slides the ring onto his fourth finger on his left hand and as he places a sweet kiss on the curve of Ten’s lips.

None of them hear what was said between the two of them that day.

But if someone had it would probably go something like:

“Til death do us part, dearest?”

**Author's Note:**

> hehehe what'd you think :D
> 
> [twt](https://twitter.com/_donghyuck_)  
[cc](https://curiouscat.me/hyxcheis)


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